The Children of Carthage
by KNS
Summary: Post S7 fic. "There are no happy endings, because nothing ever ends." Pere Beagle


The Children of Carthage

By KNS

Background Note:

In 146 BC, the city of Carthage fell to the Romans. The Romans pulled their ships into the harbor and burned them before the city, went from house to house, enslaving thousands of people, and then razed the city to the ground. Although largely unsubstantiated, legend has it that the very ground was sown with salt to further deter any future recovery.

We scout to see what we're missing,

and end by missing what we're seeing.

~ Carol Moldaw (from "Bosque del Apache")

She was sitting in the ashes of had once been Madeline's house. It was raining, a drizzling mist that had been going on all day and now had everything soaked. Lazily she traced a finger through the ashes, making random patterns without thought.

When the handful of police cruisers and half-dozen black SUVs showed up, sirens wailing and lights flashing, she didn't look up. Only when footsteps came crashing in her direction did her gaze leave the ground. She raised a pistol with her left hand. "Stay back," she snarled horsely.

Michael stopped, dropped to his haunches just a few feet from her. "Fi," he said, "Fi, it's me." He voice broke on the last word.

"Whoa, hey, Fi, take it easy," Sam said quickly. "You're good, just put the gun down."

"Get away from me," she warned.

Jesse didn't say anything. He sat down on the wet earth and just looked at her. Two black eyes, multiple cuts on her cheeks, nose definitely broken, jaw possibly as well. The hand holding the gun was shaking, the knuckles bruised and split open; the arm had numerous lacerations and what could possibly be burns. Her clothes were filthy and torn, and she wasn't wearing any shoes; it was hard to tell if she had burns or just dirt on the soles of her feet.

Michael was still trying to talk to her, his words almost nonsense. Sam had a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from moving closer. The ex-Seal's face was closed, hard, his jaw clenched, as was the fist he kept behind his back. The other people at the scene, cops and paramedics and CIA officers, kept their distance. After searching so stringently for this woman, they didn't seem to know what to do, now that she was found.

"Remember the roses Maddie grew here?" Jesse asked quietly, his voice calm.

Fiona's eyes shifted to him, but she didn't say anything.

"They would get so big, they looked fake," Jesse added. "She would cut some, put them in a vase, and the whole house would smell like roses. Except for the cigarette smoke, of course."

She blinked at him, maybe almost smiled.

He offered her a smile. "Fi, I'm getting soaked out here. Could we get out of the rain? Maybe get some tea or something?"

She looked at Michael, who was on his knees, no longer talking, and Sam, who was carefully looking into the distance.

"Hand me the gun," Jesse said easily. "I'll hold it for you."

Fiona looked at him for a long moment, then reached out and handed him the weapon.

"Thanks," he said. He put on the safety and tried to empty the rounds, but it was already empty, no chance of it being used for any kind of defense.

Jesse slowly stood up. "Come on, let's go."

She looked up at him, her eyes flat and emotionless. "I can't walk," she informed him.

Michael quickly stood and went to help her up, but she shrank away from him, snarling, "Get the hell away from me."

Michael couldn't have looked more shocked if she had shot him. Sam caught him by the arm and pulled him back. "Give her some space, brother," he said quietly.

"Fi, it's me," Michael said again. "Let me help you."

Fiona looked up at Jesse. "Make him go away."

Jesse just looked at his two friends.

[]

Jesse had just shut off the lamp and settled down when he heard the very soft knock on the bedroom door. "Yeah? Come in."

Fiona slipped in, shut the door behind her. She was wearing a pair of his pajama pants and one of his button-down shirts. The combination swamped her, made her look like a child playing dress-up. "I was wondering if I – I could sleep in here, with you?"

He blinked, surprised. "Uh, sure." He flipped back the blankets. "Just don't hog the sheets."

"No, that's not what I meant," she corrected quickly. She walked over to the oversized chair beside the window. "Here. I just wanted to sit here, if it won't bother you."

"No, it's fine," he agreed. He tossed her a pillow, then a blanket. "It's warmer over here, if you change your mind."

She turned the chair just a little, so her back would be to the wall. She slumped into the chair, pulled up her legs, arranged the pillow and blanket. "This is good, thanks."

Jesse laid back down and watched her until her eyes closed and her breathing evened out. Even after she was asleep, he continued to watch her.

[]

The nurse was vary patient with then, but getting information from her was worse than trying to get it from a trained KGB officer.

"I'm sorry, sir, I can't tell you anything," the dark haired woman said, not unkindly.

"But he's her husband," Sam said, pointing at Michael. "If Jesse and I go away, you could tell him, at least."

She fiddled with the stethoscope around her neck. "Do you have any proof of that? A marriage certificate, anything? She didn't list you as next of kin when she was admitted," the nurse added, looking at Michael.

"Look, just tell us what room she's in," Jesse pleaded. "That way, when she wakes up, we'll at least be in the right area when she clears this up, tells you who we are."

The woman briefly closed her eyes and shook her head. "Gentleman, she's already awake. And she's made it clear in no uncertain terms that she doesn't want any visitors." She glanced at Michael. "But it wouldn't hurt if you hang out in the waiting area across from 318. But no promises." She turned and went back into the nurses' station, disappeared into the crowd of doctors, techs, and other nurses.

Michael looked at Sam and Jesse. "I need you two to run interference while I get in to see her."

"Go, hurry up," Jesse said. To Sam he added, "I got this side of the hall, you get the other."

Michael quietly approached the door. It wasn't locked, and he was able to slip inside without notice. He drew the blinds, but the lights from the monitors and lamp above the bed kept the room a creamy grey.

Fiona was lying on the bed, eyes closed. She had bandages around her forehead, neck, and left hand. Her right hand was casted. Beneath the thin blue hospital gown, he could see more bandages. Her eyes were swollen, her nose crooked at the bridge.

Michael sat down in the chair beside her. "Fi," he said softly, stroking the hair back from her face. "I'm here, Fi – I'm here."

Slowly her eyes opened. They were cloudy and unfocused, glanced around the room before settling on him. "Hospital?" she croaked.

"Yeah, yes. You're safe," Michael added. "I'm here, Sam and Jesse and right outside."

She swallowed, closed her eyes. "Go away."

"No, it's okay, I won't leave," he assured her. "I'll stay right here. I promise."

Her eyes opened, shifted to him. "I want you to go away."

He felt a terrible ache starting at the base of his skull. "Fi, I don't blame you –"

Obviously gathering her strength, she said in a strong voice, "Go away."

[]

Fiona had forgotten that Armand had actually liked her at some point in time, cared for her in his calculating way.

He didn't dump her in some garage workshop. He gave her an artist's studio, filled with light from high-set windows and floors tiled with a rich, variegated wood. There were paintings hanging on the walls, images of nature in beautiful forms: autumn leaves of a mountain forest, a storm moving across a desert, a summer flower garden with a cat lounging in the shade.

"Do you like it?" Armand asked. "I though you might."

She nodded. "More than I expected."

"Less than you deserve," he countered, smiling. "But it will do. You'll find the supplies you need in various cabinets around the room. If you need something that isn't here – ask for it." He handed her a folded piece of paper. "A list of bombs I've already committed to providing, in order of importance. Desired components are also listed. Sooner is better, but quality is most important."

She reviewed the list. "I'll tell you when it's done."

He started to step towards her, stopped. "You're not a prisoner here, Fiona. You can come and go as you please. I've told Katey you're here. She's terrified of you, so you may not see her."

"Your girlfriend," Fiona guessed.

"Mmm. I keep a chef on staff, and the pool is quite lovely. Feel free to explore."

She turned away from him. "I'll keep that in mind."

[]

"Michael Westen – so good to see you again." Vaughn's smile was always the same: polished, professional, and absolutely false. The backdrop behind him was carefully blank, giving no clue to his location.

"And good to see you, too, Vaughn," Michael answered with his own false smile. "I see you've ditched the orange wardrobe."

"Indeed. That's part of the reason we're having this little conversation now," Vaughn said. "You see, Michael, our last encounter was a little – aggressive – for my taste. Everybody knows you aren't dead – too convenient a cover story. So I knew, the minute I got out, my first task would be to deal with you. Luckily, it wasn't difficult to find a few other people who had scores to settle with you."

The image split in three: Vaughn on one side, Pytor Chechik in the center, and Milles Vanderwaal on the far side. But while Vaughn was alone, Chechik stood with a wide-eyed, pale faced Charlie next to him. Vanderwaal wasn't alone, either: Fiona was with him, bound, gaged, and on her knees, glaring up at the gun Vanderwaal had pointed at her head.

The split image lasted less than a minute, then converged back to the sole figure of Vaughn. "I was able to find a few of your family, too."

Behind him, Michael could vaguely hear the whispered voices of Sam and Jesse talking with the Agency techs. The longer this exchange lasted, the more information they could get.

"What do you want?" Michael asked calmly.

"I want to make a deal," Vaughn said brightly. "Ready to talk terms?"

"I'm listening."

Vaughn nodded. "Good, very good. Just to let you know: my friends and I are not together. We're not even on the same continent. So you better stick to whatever deal we strike, or you won't have time to – find – all of us."

The implication was clear. "What do you want?" Michael asked again.

"I want you to leave me alone," Vaughn answered simply. "It's that easy. But I know you, Michael, so I know you'll need a reason to enforce our agreement. This is what I propose: Fiona or the boy. Charlie, right? Charlie. You can have one back. The other –" He shrugged. "That should provide incentive for you to leave me alone in the future: knowing that you still have something – someone – to lose."

"That's insane," Sam said, coming to stand beside Michael. "You've lost your mind."

"Sam Axe." Vaughn smiled. "I see you're still alive and whining."

"I want proof of life before any negotiations," Michael said.

"I'll consult with my associates," Vaughn replied. "They're not terribly patient men, as I'm sure you recall. In the mean time, you may want to consider your long-term – issues." He ended the connection without preamble.

Michael turned towards Jesse and the techs. "Please tell me you got something."

[]

Danny Pierce knew she was being followed. To men, possible three – she wasn't sure. The streets of Mumbai were always crowded, but she was good at spotting a tail. What was it this time? A former job? The drug-smuggling ring that her taskforce was close to breaking? It didn't matter. There were a zillion civilians around, and she didn't exactly blend in. What she needed was a place to hide while she called for assistance.

She turned sharply around one corner, cut through a shop, turned again. She unholstered her gun with her right hand, dialed her cell phone with her left. She turned around a final corner – and found herself confronting four men. They were Caucasian, with short, military-cut hair, dark sunglasses that hid their eyes. Each one of them had a gun levelly trained on her.

Pierce dropped her phone, brought her own weapon up quickly. "I am a diplomatic agent. Lower your weapons right now, or you will be arrested."

The men didn't reply, didn't even hesitate, but began to advance on her very slowly.

This was going to be rough.

Suddenly there were shots fired from behind her. She dropped down, kept her weapon on the four men but glanced over her shoulder at the people behind her. They didn't seem interested in her, so she quickly turned back to her initial aggressors.

They were scattered all across the dirty alley, unmoving, probably dead.

She stood up, turned to fully face the two men behind her. They were the two people she had identified as tailing her.

"Who the hell are you?" Pierce demanded. "And what the hell's going on?"

They moved around her, silently checking the bodies of the downed men.

"I'm talking to you," Pierce added sharply.

One of the men smiled at her, and it wasn't a friendly gesture. "Compliments of Fiona Glenanne."

As a team they returned their weapons into their dark jackets, moved past her, and disappeared back into the crowd.

Pierce retrieved her cell phone from the ground, quickly dialed her superior.

"Hey, Roberts – I just received tactical support from a dead woman. Know anything abut that?"

[]

Michael found the note taped to the driver's side window of his vehicle. He removed it carefully – the sender may have left a finger print on the underside of the tape.

The note's message was vague and typewritten: _Jasmine Cafe West 3:45_. No threats to come alone or unarmed, just a simple request, and invitation.

He arrived almost an hour early.

It was a quiet, demure place of water fountains and large, oriental plants. Tall walls of living bamboo separated tables. Instrumental oriental music played gently in the background.

The short, slender hostess greeted him with a smile. "Mr. Westen? Your table is waiting for you."

That was interesting – his mystery guest was already here, waiting for him. Was it another operative?

There was a man sitting at the table where the waitress stopped. The man stood, and Michael recognized him immediately.

"Armand."

"Michael." The man waved away the waitress. "Please, sit down."

This was one of the rare moments in his life that Michael wanted to do a hundred things at once. The man standing across from him – he wanted to strangle him, beat him bloody, make him acknowledge Fiona's death was his fault. But he didn't: he smiled civilly, and sat down.

"Thank you for coming," Armand said. "Tea?" He filled the delicate oriental teacup without waiting for an answer.

Michael didn't feel inclined to engage in polite conversation. "What do you want, Armand?"

The man smiled, and it didn't reach his eyes. "I came to tell you that I'll be taking Fiona's remains back to Ireland. She wanted to be buried next to her sister, and the rest of her family."

"And how would you know that?" Michael asked, also smiling falsely.

"Because she said so." He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper and set it on the table between them. "Notice the date – four days before she died. Before you killed her," he corrected.

Michael gritted his teach. He took the letter, briefly skimmed it. It was more like a will than anything else, with a few final requests thrown in. It wasn't witnessed or notarized, but he recognized the small, neat writing. Still he said, "It's a forgery."

"Hmm. You know, she didn't say where she was going when she left, but I had my suspicions. I almost sent a security detail after her. Seems we both made a few mistakes, when it came to Fiona." He sipped from his tea.

"She was nothing but an employee to you," Michael said softly. "You gave her work that turned her into an international criminal."

Armand laughed a little. "What is that word your agency uses to describe a person who's being exploited for their skills or information?"

Michael's jaw clenched. "An asset."

"Ah, yes. An asset." Armand nodded. "You used that word quite often to describe Fiona, didn't you? She was an asset. An employee. I'm certain all the things you asked her to do were quite legal."

"What do you want, Armand?" Michael demanded quietly.

"I want you to feel Fiona's loss as intensely as I do," Armand answered, smiling. "More tea?"

[]

Vaughn smiled over the computer connection. It was his usual feral smile, the one that never met his eyes. But this time, he looked particularly pleased. "Have you thought about your decision, Michael?"

Michael leaned back against the desk. "Still thinking."

Out of camera range, Jesse was seated among a group of Agency techs, trying to gather information about the connection itself: possible server, location, relays. Sam stood watching over his shoulder, his gaze split between Michael and the image of Vaughn.

"Well, as a show of good faith, I'm ready to offer you proof of life. Just of Fiona, right now. Watch her clip, then let me know if you want to see the boy's. I have to say, Vanderwaal's tactics aren't my style, but they do make a point. Enjoy." Vaughn did something on his end of the connection and the image shifted, changed to black-and-white with the sound muted out.

Michael straightened when the image resolution sharpened.

It was a small room, about the size of a garage, without furniture or windows and only one door clearly visible.

Fiona was there, as were two other people, large men who carried a knife in each of their hands. Fiona was unarmed. They circled each other warily, like alley cats on the verge of violence. The men advanced together, rushed her, but she obviously wasn't surprised. She worked to keep them both together, infront of her. Most of her moves were self-defensive, but even so, she kept taking cuts time after time. At one point she managed to land a kick to one of the men's wrists; he dropped the knife, and she snapped it up instantly. It gave her only a slight advantage. The more they fought, the more tired the small female was obviously becoming. It was a streak of luck that she managed to sweep the legs from beneath one of the men. When he slipped to one knee, she jumped onto his back and dragged her knife across his throat without hesitation. Then there were just two figures standing in the room, and one obviously dead body dumped in a dark and widening pool of blood.

"Way to go, Fi," Sam laughed. "Always knew she could hold her own."

But on the black-and-white image, the room's solitary door opened and three more men entered. Fiona slowly backed into a corner, a knife in each hand.

"Not good," Jesse said, eyes on the screen. "Oh, this is not good."

They rushed her, and while she was able to land a few blows, she was grossly outnumbered. The blades were pried from her hands as she was pinned against the wall. She used their leverage to fold up her legs and kick out, smashing one man in the face so that he fell to the ground and didn't get back up. But that was her last stand; after that, things started going downhill for her so fast that Jesse turned his eyes away.

"Mike, you don't want to see this," Sam said tightly.

Michael himself said nothing. The last image was frozen in the space behind his eyes: Fiona pinned to a wall, a hand over her mouth so that she couldn't scream.

[]

Michael sat down in the chair across from the giant desk, tried to keep his expression pleasant. "What can I do for you, Agent Johnston?"

Johnston was a middle-aged man with dark eyes and a quickly receding hairline. Michael didn't know much about him other than that he handled trans-Atlantic criminals, individuals who were security problems in Europe and the U.S.

The agent tossed a folder across the table to him. "Take a look at that. Tell me what you see."

Michael took the file, reviewed the inch-thick stack of documents and print-outs. Russia, England, Italy, France, Germany, and a few other countries. High value targets, like customs offices and government buildings, to individuals, like organized crime bosses and armsdealers. Explosive devices were the tools, but they varied by components and signature. No clear connections among the targets, locations, or creator.

At the very end of the file there were pictures, black-and-white images of the results of the explosions.

And Fiona.

She looked different in every picture: hair style and color, clothing, glasses. A businesswoman, a hitchhiker, a housekeeper.

"Your girlfriend has been very, very busy," Johnston said, watching Michael closely. "The Agency may not have wasted resources to find her if we knew she'd end up doing things like this."

"This. . . is a mistake," Michael said slowly. "The facts don't point to one person. These are all random. I don't see a link among any of them."

"Oh, there's a link," Johnston assured him. He handed Michael another file, opened it and spread its contents across the desk for Michael to review. "Your girlfriend is working with this man, Armand del Sando. He's an armsdealer, among other things. Seems they had quite the relationship some years ago. Apparently thinks have picked up again."

Michael shrugged. "Still not seeing the connection here."

"Then let me point it out for you," Johnston said tensely. "Glenanne has the experience to make every one of these bombs. She's been seen at over half the locations either before or after the events. She currently has nine different aliases known to the Agency." He gave Michael a calculating look. "When's the last time you saw her?"

"She stayed with a friend after she left the hospital," he replied easily. "Haven't seen her since."

"Or talked to her?"

Now that was a different question. "Not for a long time. When Fiona cuts you loose, she cuts you loose."

"Hmm." Johnston looked skeptical. "It's hard to believe, after all you've been through together, she'd just leave."

Michael shrugged.

"Let me get to the point," the man behind the desk said finally. "She's wanted by a half-dozen or so countries for questioning, not to mention us. Now, you remember how the Russians run their interrogations, right? How do you think she would do with another go-round with angry men?" He paused. "What I'm suggesting is that you help us find her first. She'll get a fair deal with us."

Michael had to laugh a little. "Even if I was inclined to help you, I don't have magical powers that tell me where she is." Because if he did, he would've used them a long time ago.

"Maybe not, but I'm betting you know her better than anyone else," Johnston said, leaning back in his chair. "You help us find her, and I give you my word, she won't be harmed."

Michael quickly ran through scenarios in his head. "I'll need that in writing."

Johnston laughed shortly. "Fair enough. You'll be part of the taskforce slated for obtaining her location and extracting her back to the U.S. You'll have a handful of other agents working with you, including Danny Pierce. You remember her, don't you? She's being recalled from Mumbai. Apparently Glenanne has been in contact with her."

"News to me," Michael answered, which was true. "I assume you'll be heading up the taskforce?"

"I will," Johnston nodded. "And, Westen, I want you to know I've been over your file with a fine-toothed comb. I know what you've done for this woman in the past. And if I even get a hint that you're doing something other than being fully cooperative with this operation, I'll make it a point to make sure she's transferred to the country willing to pay the most for her information. Understood?"

He never had liked threats. But he only smiled and said, "Understood."

[]

She barely made a scratching sound at the door before slipping inside. She shut the door quickly behind her and kept her back against it.

Michael was sitting at the table cleaning his disassembled handgun. He stood up when he saw her. "Fi?"

She held up a hand. "Stop."

He didn't take another step towards her.

Fiona looked up at the ceiling. The scars on her neck and throat were still angry and obvious, despite the cosmetics she used to try to conceal them. "I –" she started, then stopped. "I'm drowning here, Michael. You know it's true."

Michael almost stepped forward, caught himself in time. "Let me help you, Fi. Whatever you're thinking –"

"I'm thinking that if you come any closer, you'll drown right beside me. No need for us both to go down," she said, still not looking at him.

"It doesn't have to be like this," he said angrily. "I've been patient, given you space and time, and it doesn't seem to have helped. Are you feeling better, doing better? Because it sure as hell doesn't look like it."

"I just told you how I'm doing," she said tightly. "Don't make this harder than it has to be."

"Come here," he said, stretching out a hand. "Come and sit with me. Let's talk about this, because I'm getting the feeling that things are about to go very wrong."

She shook her head. "No."

"Fiona—" He stopped. "Just – just talk to me. I don't know how to fix this. And I will do anything to fix this."

Her shoulders relaxed a little. "Michael, you've got to cut me loose. I'm falling, I can't stop, and you can't catch me. This is going to end badly. I really, really don't want you to have to watch."

He closed his eyes. "Fiona, are you thinking about suicide?'

"No," she said gently. She waited for him to look at her, then added, "There's nothing left of me to destroy. I'm already dead – I just haven't fallen down yet."

He took a deep breath. "You need help. There are people who can help you. It doesn't have to be this way."

She turned and opened the door. "If I could still feel anything, I would still love you. I held onto that for as long as I could."

She shut the door softly behind her.

[]

She fell asleep on the plane. The bouncing of the landing gear touching down jerked her awake. She glanced out the window she was sitting next to. Jungle. Thick and green, with underbrush waiting to reclaiming the tarmac if given half a chance. Somewhere in Central or South America?

Fiona turned her head, found Armand seated across from her. "Too close," she warned him, fighting down her own urge to move away.

Armand slowly blinked at her, then moved to the far seat across the aisle. "Good enough?"

She nodded, looked back out the window. Brazil, maybe? He'd had a place in Rio, once.

"I did some looking about while you were resting," Armand told her. "Seems you had a rather unfortunate run-in with some of your boyfriend's nasty enemies. I assume you came away with a few scars."

She gave him her coldest glare. "No questions. Another part of the deal."

"Hmm." He rubbed his chin. "I could have them – handled – if you'd like."

Fiona pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket. "These are the names of the ones I know. Take care of their associates and friends, too. Seize their assets."

Armand took the paper, unfolded and regarded it silently. "This is quite a list."

"I'm quite a good bomb maker," she returned.

He nodded after a moment. "I have a list of my own."

"Put me in a room, provide the supplies, I'll get started." She looked out the window again. "Let me know if you want a specific maker's signature."

"You can do that now?" He sounded slightly impressed.

She didn't turn away from the window. "I've learned and grown as a person."

[]

"You're late," Fiona informed him as soon as he slid into the booth.

Was that her, three booths ahead of him, facing away? He hadn't seen her in months. According to Johnston's files, she changed her appearance as often as she changed her clothes. She could look like anyone by now. They weren't even talking directly to each other: they were talking over a cell phone connection. But considering that they hadn't been in the same room for months, it was better than nothing.

"Flattered you waited," he replied. There was a sense of surrealism about this situation. It reminded him of when he'd first been dumped in Miami, and Fiona had been in the hotel room when he'd come-to. He'd walked out on her in the middle of the night years before, but they'd fallen into the old banter like hardly anything had happened. Now here they were again.

Maybe nothing ever really changed. Maybe they just kept going in the same circle, some parts better or worse than others.

"Jesse said you had something important to say," Fiona explained. "You have five minutes, then I have to go. I'm quite popular these days."

"So I've heard," he said dryly. His voice changed. "How are you?"

"Fine," she said easily. "You?"

"Still here." He paused. "Fiona, I know what you've been doing. You need to stop."

"That's the important thing you needed to say?" She snorted.

"Why are you doing this? You were always so set on helping people. Now you're a professional bombmaker?"

"I was always a professional bombmaker," she corrected him. "Now I just do it on a wider scale."

"Dangerous game," he advised. "You're popular, but not in a good way." Again he paused. "Why were you able to talk to Jesse and Sam, but not me? Do you hate me that much?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I can't look at myself in a mirror, Michael. What would make me think you would feel any different?"

"I don't hate you, if that's what you're thinking," Michael said quietly.

The woman in the booth ahead of him tapped her fingers on the table. "When I – when they –" She stopped, tried again. "I will never feel like that again. Never. Doing this gives me the security of knowing that what happened before will never happen again." She paused. "I have to go."

She cut the connection without warning. The woman in the booth stood up, started to walk quickly for the far exit.

He was after her in an instant, caught her by the arm and made her face him.

But the woman wasn't Fiona: she had a dark complexion and different bone structure. Even in disguise, it couldn't have been her.

"Please, let me go," the woman said quickly. "The deal was just for me to carry the cell phone, not go with you."

Fiona had sent a cut-out.

She really had changed.

[]

The surgery seemed to be taking forever.

Sam watched Michael pace the length of the waiting room time after time. He watched him drop into a chair, restlessly watch CNN for awhile, then go back to pacing.

"Mike, we need to have a talk," Sam said finally. He looked over at Jesse, who had been sitting in the same position for over an hour. "Can you give us a minute?"

Slowly Jesse nodded. "Yeah, sure." He stood and went through the door into the hallway, giving Michael a suspicious look as he went.

Sam pulled his chair over to where Michael was sitting.

"I know what you're going to say," Michael warned, raising a hand. "So just – don't."

"No," Sam said. "I'm sorry, but no. Mikey, you know what's going on here. Fi had to be sedated just to get her into the ambulance." He hesitated. "You've been in war zones. So have I. We both know what kind of hell goes on there, especially for the women –"

"That's not what's happening here," Michael said angrily. "She's hurt and scared and needs me to support her –"

"Stop it," Sam snapped back. "This is about her, not you. You have to face the facts – Mike, Mikey, listen to me," he said as Michael returned to pacing around the room. "They had days with her. The things on the outside aren't the worst of it."

"Don't you think I know that?" he shouted at Sam. "I got it, okay?"

"Then say it," Sam said quietly. "Get it out of your head."

Michael stopped, looked up at the ceiling. "Beatings. Torture. Rape. Probably made her watch them hurt Charlie. Probably used him as leverage against her." He looked down at the floor, covered his face with a hand. "I can say it, but I can't believe it."

"Well, you need to," Sam insisted, not unkindly. "You know the suicide rates are very, very high in these situations. We've both seen that, too."

"So what am I supposed to do?" Michael asked. "Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make this better."

Sam quietly answered, "Well, I'd start by giving her some space. You push her, and she'll run so far, so fast, you'll never catch her. And even if you do, you'll wish you hadn't."

"I won't leave her," Michael said flatly. "Anything else, whatever she wants. But I'm not leaving."

Sam closed his eyes, ran a hand over his face. "She doesn't want to be anywhere near you right now. Probably not me, either. She seems okay with Jesse. Trust him – he'll keep you in the loop."

"I can't leave her," Michael said again, more quietly, his voice cracking.

"That's not what I said," Sam replied. "Time. Space. She'll work through it. It's Fi, for god's sake. Have a little faith in her. Just be patient."

All Michael could say was, "I'm not going to leave her."

[]

He woke up with a start, pulling the gun from beneath the pillow and aiming it at shadows before he was truly awake.

She was standing at the open window, the drapes gently blowing from a breeze. The streetlight slanted in through the drapes, pale and thin – but he recognized her instantly. Months or years – he would always recognize her, no matter how much she changed her appearance.

He lowered the gun. "Fiona. What are you doing here?"

She turned away from the window. Shadows clung to her thin, thin face, and completely hid her eyes. "I came to ask you to stop hunting me, Michael."

Shoving the gun back under the pillow, he switched on the lamp beside the bed.

"Turn it off," she said quickly.

He did, but asked, "Why?"

"Because I don't want your agency friends down the hall to know I'm here."

He pushed back the sheets and stood up, walked over to her and stopped a few paces away. "So you knew it was me?"

"Of course," Fiona answered. "The Agency could never find me on their own. Interpol's a joke. MI-6 couldn't get me when I was living in their own backyard. That leaves you."

"You didn't give me much choice," Michael said, crossing his arms. "You've turned into a death merchant. Hundreds of deaths have been linked to your bombs."

She snorted. "That's a bit of an overstatement. Have to watch out for that propaganda, Michael." After a moment she added, "And is that how you really think of me now – as a terrorist?" She moved closer, looked at him for a minute, then aimlessly walked past him.

"It's true, wouldn't you say?" he asked, turning to face her.

She stopped, played with the edge of a bedsheet. "If you keep helping them, I will get caught. Probably sooner rather than later." She glanced at him over her shoulder. "We both know what will happen then."

He walked over to her, getting closer than she had allowed for a long time. "Then stop. You know how to disappear. The trail will go cold."

"And then?" she asked, turning towards him.

"You could. . ." His voice trailed away. What was a person supposed to do after becoming an international criminal? She'd looked more like a criminal in Johnston's photos. Standing beside her now, he could see she was barely more than bones and shadows. Her hair was cut short, just below her ears, and very light – possibly blond, but it was hard to tell by the dim streetlight. She wore a long-sleeved, high-collared shirt, but the top of a scar was still visible along her neck.

Slowly he reached out to touch the mark, trace it down below the fabric.

"Don't," she said softly.

"Fi," he said just as softly.

To his surprise, she reached up towards his face, hesitated, then touched his cheek with the tips of her fingers. It was barely a touch, her fingers so light that they could easily have been mistaken for the breeze coming through the window. Over his cheeks, forehead, nose, closed eyes, lips.

He opened his eyes and looked down at her. "Why won't you stop, Fi? There are other ways to live."

She smiled up at him, a smile so sad that it made her look very, very young, as young as when they'd first met. "Michael, don't you know? I'm already dead."

"That's not true," he said sharply. "Dead people don't hide bombs, hide from authorities, hide their scars." This time he touched the scar that started on the back of her hand and ended at her elbow.

She bowed her head. "Why do you have to keep doing that? I live with these marks. I don't need you pointing them out for me."

Just for the hell of it, he reached behind her and traced the jagged line across her shoulderblade.

Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "I came here to ask you to walk away from this manhunt. I didn't come here to be made ashamed of things I can't change."

"I never made you ashamed of them," he returned, touching the one behind her ear. "At least, I never meant to."

"This was a mistake," she said, looking away from him. "I'm leaving. Just give me five minutes before you report me."

It was a dark room and he couldn't really see the expression on her face, so he took a chance. He reached for the first button on her shirt, unfastened it, reached for the second. "Go. I won't tell anyone you were here."

Then she did look up at him. "I should be clear in five minutes."

He slowly kept undoing buttons, no sudden moves, until he was able to fold the fabric over her shoulder. Cautiously, knowing she could rebel at any moment, he bent to kiss the thin line from neck to collarbone.

"I'm leaving," she said again, sounding like she was talking more to herself than him. Not a minute later she told him, "You'd better be quiet about this, with your little agency friends one room over."

"Thick walls," he mumbled, tracing the waistline of her pants around to the snaps.

She caught his hands. "I don't look like I used to. I'm not very pretty anymore."

Already half on his knees, he said, "I always thought you were beautiful. Didn't have everything to do with how you looked."

So she let him undo the snaps and slide the pants from her very thin hips. He coaxed her onto the bed, but when he leaned over her, she pushed him away, almost in a panic.

"Not over me," she said tightly. "Don't do that."

Which wasn't telling him to stop, something he expected her to say at any minute. He settled beside her, peeling back all the fabric until he was able to trace every mark on her, from behind her ear to the inside of her thigh. And when he was finished he looked at her squarely and saw her watching him closely, a wary expression on her face.

"Still beautiful," he said gently.

She caught his face between her hands and kissed him – not gently, either, but with the same passion she'd had before everything fell apart. He tried to catch her hips and maneuver her into place, but she pulled away to sit up and push the hair out of her face.

"I can't do this," she said, looking up at the ceiling. She stood up and went into the bathroom, turned on the shower.

He laid on the bed, trying to think of a way to apologize for pushing her too far.

"Are you coming?" she hissed at him.

That was not what he had been expecting at all. He followed her voice, almost tripping over a chair before he made it into the bathroom. She motioned him to step into the shower with her, and when he did, she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Close to his ear, she said, "There wasn't any water there. Everything was cold and hard. I can do this."

"Okay, well –" He only had a minute to figure out what she had planned: she used her grip on his shoulders to jump up and wrap her legs around him. She was very light, but he still almost slipped on the wet tiles.

She laughed, freed a hand to flick water on his face.

How long had it been since he'd heard her laugh like that? He laughed, too, laying his forehead against hers. She turned her head and kissed him, almost aggressively. He braced her against the wall, pushed forward as smoothly as possible.

She made a strangled sound and broke off the kissing.

"Okay, that's enough," he said quickly, pulling back, ready to let her go.

"No, I can do this. Just keep going." She pulled him closer, nipped at his shoulder, bumped her hips against his.

Then there were no second thoughts, no changing of minds. The next time she made a sound, it wasn't one of protest.

Afterwards, she rested her head against his shoulder, catching her breath.

"I love you," he said softly, stroking her hair. "I still love you."

She either didn't hear him or pretended not to. "The water's getting cold," she said.

He kissed her forehead and let her go. She shut off the water, took a towel and wrapped it around herself as she went back into the bedroom. He grabbed the other towel and followed her, almost tripping over the chair again.

"Time to talk," he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

She finished buttoning her pants. "Not much to say. I've already been here too long." She looked at him. "Will you still give me five minutes before you report me?"

"Fi, stop" he said, catching her arm and pulling her down beside him. "I don't understand you."

She tilted her head. "I came to ask you to stop hunting me, stop helping the Agency. If this keeps up, I will get caught. So please – walk away."

"And did you think what we just did would be the best way to convince me? You know what you're doing is hurting people, right? Those explosives Armand has you making – why won't you stop? Does he have something on you? Are you involved with him romantically?" he asked.

"I think I just demonstrated that I haven't been romantically involved with anyone since –" She stopped. "I can barely manage to stand too close to someone."

"Then what just happened?"

She smiled a little. "Something unexpected. And nice. Something I didn't think I'd ever want to do again. And just for a few minutes – I could remember. . .But you can't survive on memories, Michael. You want things to be different, I know. But wanting things to be different doesn't make them so. After all that's happened – I can still do one thing, and I do it really well." She stood up, using the towel to dry her hair. "So if you really do still love me – then walk away."

He ran a hand over his face. "Listen, Fi – you helped me when I was ready to jump off a cliff. You were the only one able to pull me back from Kendrick's special kind of hell. I'm telling you now what you told me then: don't do this. You've got to stop."

She looked at him and sighed. "Five minutes," she said, turning away.

"Hey," he called before she left. "If you don't stop, I won't either. And we both know who'll win."

Silently she nodded, suddenly seeming very, very tired.

And then she was gone.

[]

Fiona waited until Jesse had gone to sleep for the evening. Silently she crept into his room, took the cell phone from his nightstand by the bed. She tried to walk as silently as possible. Jesse was like Michael, and slept with a gun under his pillow. It would be an awkward conversation if she woke him.

She took the phone into the bathroom, shut the door and turned on the shower. She sat down on the cool tiles and dialed a number she hadn't called in years.

A woman's face appeared on the screen. "Answering service," she said, not unkindly. "How can I help you?"

"I want to talk to Armand. Tell him it's Fi."

The screen went dark for a moment. Instrumental music filled the space. She hoped Jesse was still asleep.

When the screen again brightened, Armand was there, looking the same as always, but his hair was streaked with silver now. He smiled at her, his arrogant smile.

"Fiona Glenanne," he said. "I knew you weren't dead. A bomb, taking out the best bombmaker I've ever known? No."

Fiona swallowed. "You once said I could call you if I ever changed my mind. I have."

Armand tilted his head. "And what about that boyfriend of yours, the one you chased all over the place? What does he say about this change of heart?"

Fiona looked up at the ceiling, then back to the screen. "He's dead to me now."

"I see." Armand rubbed his chin, thinking for a moment. "I have another woman with me. I'll need a few days to send her away."

"Keep her," Fiona replied. "I'm only offering my professional services. That's all."

"And in exchange?"

"You get me away from here. You don't ask me any questions. And I need a few people – dealt with. In exchange, I'll provide labor. Any bomb, any time, any kind. No exceptions."

Again Armand considered her words. "I will consider your offer. Give me two days."

"No," Fiona said flatly. "Take it or leave it right now. Say yes, you send someone for me immediately. Say no, and I move on to other options. Maybe one of your adversaries. Doesn't matter to me."

"Hmm." More silence. "Fine, but on a trial basis. Renege on your part, and we're done."

"Deal," Fiona said. "When can you send someone?"

"I'll have my pilot fly us in as quickly as possible," he said, again flashing his wolfish smile. "See you tomorrow."

"I'll be at the hanger. Don't seen a fleet of men to pick me up. I'll be there."

Armand nodded. "As you will. It will be good to work with you again, Fiona."

He cut the connection. She turned off the water and opened the door.

Jesse was leaning against the wall, waiting for her. "Little late for a call."

"Crisis line," she lied easily. "Needed to talk."

"Oh," Jesse said. "Sorry."

She handed him the phone. She'd already erased the call log. "Sorry I didn't ask first."

Jesse didn't say anything else.

[]

"I want this done in pairs," Johnston said. He spoke loudly, so that his words would carry to the thirty or so law enforcement personnel surrounding him. "We have solid information that the bomber is in the building. The armsdealer may or may not be with her." He held up a black-and-white copy of a woman's face. "This is the last known appearance of the target. She may have altered her appearance. This information is also being sent to your handheld device." He paused. "She is considered armed and dangerous, so if you locate her, call for backup. By all indications she is willing and able to use deadly force."

Sam glanced at Michael. Behind those sunglasses, it was hard to tell what he was thinking. "It's a big hotel."

"We have to get to her first," Michael said quietly.

"And how do we do that?"

Michael looked up at the tall, tall hotel with hundreds of windows facing the ocean. "I know how she hides. Sometimes."

So when the teams were divided and given assignments, Michael made sure he and Sam were part of the group searching the ninth floor. "Room by room," Johnston reminded them. "I don't care about the guests – pull them out and search the room. She could be hiding among them."

"You take the right wing, we'll take the left," Michael told the other pair of agents on the elevator. "Watch the stairs."

"She won't get past us," one of the men said grimly.

Sam wouldn't bet money on that.

They split when the elevator doors opened: one team to the right, Michael and Sam to the left. They had a master key, and while some of the rooms were occupied, most weren't. Sam stood in the doorway while Michael went in, searched the room, and backed out. The hotel guests mostly reacted with horror to find two armed men at their door, demanding entrance, and some of them threatened lawsuits immediately, but they all complied.

"Doesn't this seem weird to you?" Sam asked once, when they were between rooms. "They're hunting down Fi like she's a terrorist. And we're helping."

"Don't think of her as Fi," Michael advised. "That's what I'm trying to do."

Twenty or so rooms into the search, Michael went in to do yet another sweep and instead found Fiona sitting on the couch, looking out at the waves on the beach. She looked at him calmly as he circled the furniture, coming to stand beside her, gun held loosely at his side.

"I knew it would be you," she said, almost smiling.

He held up a hand, motioning her to be silent. He covered his mike and earpiece, muttered softly, "Stay here. I'll come for you later. Stay here."

She tilted her head and shrugged.

"Here," he mouthed again, holding up a warning finger.

He backed out of the room, shut the door behind him. "All clear," he told Sam.

Sam looked at him. "She's in there, isn't she?"

"No," Michael said, nodding.

"Well then, off to the next room," Sam replied. "Let's get this over with."

[]

"Mike – is that you?" Sam's concern was clear over the phone line. His face was etched with worry on the screen. "What are you doing calling me like this? You know my line's probably still tapped."

"I'm counting on that," Michael returned sharply. "Fi and Charlie have been kidnapped. They were at a family birthday party – I went to work, and when I got there, there were cops and first responders everywhere. Whoever it was wiped out the entire group, most of Fi's family, kids and all. And I got a text from Vaughn."

"Vaughn?" Sam echoed. "Doing life in Guantanamo, Vaughn?"

"Well, I guess he got paroled," Michael snapped. "He said he was taking them back to the U.S., and he'd contact me through Langly."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "He's trying to blow your cover. And I know the Agency won't be too happy to learn you aren't dead."

"Out of options," Michael replied. "I'm about to get on a flight to D.C. Can you call Jesse. . .?"

"I'm on it," Sam said quickly. "We'll meet you in D.C. Hang in there, brother. Fi will handle things on her end."

"Thanks, Sam." Michael cut the connection and took his place in the line to pass though airport security.

[]

Fiona was sitting on a barstool, looking at the garden painting, when Armand came in. He stopped beside her, regarded the painting with a critical eye. "The cat – does it add or detract from the scene? For some reason, it doesn't seem to fit."

"No, it fits," she disagreed. "A predator among an otherwise peaceful image. It's like the serpent in Eden – dangerous, but there to remind one that nothing is without the price of loss."

"Hmm." He thought about that for a moment. Eventually he shrugged. "I came to talk about our arrangement. I believe it has concluded."

"Meaning what?" she asked.

"Meaning your debt is paid. The level of labor you've provided has far exceeded the quantity of individuals you requested – be handled." After a moment he added, "And their assess have made you quite financially stable."

She kept her eyes on the painting. "Are you kicking me out?"

"Far from it," Armand said. "I would like to propose a new arrangement. One where we work as equal partners, and you remain here as my guest for as long as you'd like."

Fiona mulled over the idea. "I'd get an equal share about the targets?"

"Of course. And an equal share of the profits."

"Sounds reasonable," she allowed. "But we need to get something straight: I will not be your girlfriend, lover, anything else you have in mind. And, most importantly, I will never, ever, love you."

He scratched his cheek. "You may change your mind. We were quite close, once."

She didn't bother to answer.

"Fine. On your terms, then." He looked back at the painting. "I can see this is your favorite. Why?"

Fiona smiled, letting herself remember. "We had a garden out behind the house. There was a stray cat, skinny, hid in the bushes. One day I put out some fish scraps for it. Charlie saw me. He'd wanted to touch that cat for a long time, but it always ran from him. But after he saw me put out the fish scraps, he started asking for something for the cat every day. He would put down his little offering, never tried to touch the cat again. After a week or two, I went outside and saw the cat winding around his ankles, purring like a blender. Charlie looked so happy." She abruptly stopped talking.

"If you stay, I'll build you the most beautiful garden you've ever seen," he said quietly. "I'll even throw in a cat or two."

She shrugged a little. "Whatever you want. Did you bring me another order?"

[]

"Mikey, I don't like it," Sam said, shaking his head. "This is just not right."

It was odd to be at the Carlito, him and Sam and Jesse, knowing Fi wasn't coming, wouldn't ever be coming to join them. Hurricanes, floods, fires – the Carlito could withstand them all. It was even able to withstand the dissolution of friendships.

"Look, I don't like it, either," Michael said, "but this Johnston guy is out for blood. And apparently his buddies in the greater part of Europe are dead set on taking her down." He ran a hand over his face. "If we don't get her first, Johnston is threatening a rendition play."

"Rendition?" Sam echoed. "This guy doesn't even have any proof that all this is Fi's work."

"It's her," Jesse said quietly. He set down his glass and repeated calmly, "It's Fi."

The other two men stared at him.

"She, uh, called me awhile back. Just to say she was okay. And in Italy for a job." Jesse held up his hands apologetically. "Look, I'm sorry, she asked me not to say anything. She sounded – better. Way better. I couldn't – she made me promise. I'm sorry."

Michael took off his sunglasses, tossed them onto the table. "You couldn't tell me she was okay?"

"It's not only him, Mike," Sam added. "About a month or two ago, Elsa got an email. It was from Fi, for me. Said she was fine, taking a break in, uh – Paris."

Quickly Michael shuffled through the papers Johnston had allowed him to take. He laid down a timeline of events. "So she called you here –" he pointed at a location and date, " – and sent you an email here." He pointed to another date and location.

"It's Fi," Sam sighed. "Dammit."

"Okay, well – it's – she's messed up. I mean, she's sick. Ill. Mentally," Jesse explained.

"She was a bombmaker long before this," Michael said calmly. "This is Armand's doing."

"That name sounds familiar," Sam said. "He's the guy she reached out to a few years ago, the one who wanted a cargo of stolen ammunition for info. Great guy."

"That's Armand," Michael agreed. "Sam, can you reach out to some of your FBI friends, see if they know anything they haven't already shared with the Agency?"

"Yeah, sure, Mikey, but that's a long shot," Sam warned. Michael nodded. "Jesse – did she leave any way to get in touch with her?"

Jesse shook his head. "No, she – wait. Wait, she did say something about Charlie. Something about maybe being here for his birthday."

"Here, as in, here in Miami?" Michael asked.

"I think so, yeah," Jesse agreed. "But, Mike, seriously – are you really going to turn her in?"

Michael just looked at him.

[]

Sam drove as fast as possible, barely turned off the engine before he was running down the beach, stumbling in the sand. "Mike? Mikey, where are you?"

Michael didn't answer, but Sam thought he saw him up the shoreline. He ran towards him, ankles sinking in the sand, and stopped short when he reached them.

Michael sat in the sand, Fiona cradled against him. There was a gun flung a few feet away. Fiona was limp, obviously dead, and Michael was crying.

"What the hell happened?' Sam demanded.

Michael looked up at him. "I killed her," he said simply.

[]

Pierce met him at a cafe, one of dozens in this part of D.C. Michael sat down at the table ahead of her.

"Thanks for coming," she said, not looking at him.

"Since we're part of the same taskforce, I assume it's something you don't want Johnston to know," Michael answered.

"You know I didn't ask to be part of this game," she told him. "I was almost ambushed in an alley – if Fiona's men hadn't bailed me out, very bad things would have happened." She paused.."I saw the tapes, Michael."

He adjusted his sunglasses. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, well, here we are." She sipped her coffee. "I found Vaughn. He gave me a few locations on Chechik. I thought you might like to stop by and say hello."

Michael almost turned around to look at her. "Where are they?"

"I only know where Chechik might be. Vaughn's in the wind."

"You couldn't hold onto him?"

Pierce laughed a little. "Think you're the only one who makes deals with the devil? He payed for his life and freedom for the Chechik info."

He shouldn't be angry with her – at least she had something. "We'll get Vaughn later."

"Don't count on it," Pierce advised. "This whole fiasco started because he thought you'd come after him. Now you have Chechik – maybe he'll give you Vanderwaal. But after that, Michael – goddammit, walk away. Find Fiona and start over. You spent years of your life hunting people down. Don't waste any more time."

"We already tried that game. You can see how well that worked out," Michael snapped.

"So try again. The alternative is a lot less promising." She took one more drink from her coffee. "See you at work."

As she passed him, she casually dropped a waded up napkin on his table.

He waited until she was around the corner before he opened it.

[]

Jesse lived in a nice neighborhood. When she was ready to leave, she just picked out the car she wanted from a nearby driveway: a black convertible with leather interior. It reminded her of the car Michael had given her after helping one of Carla's targets. It's security features were nothing; she disabled the GPS, planned to reengage it when she reached the airport.

She tossed a small backpack into the seat behind her. All it held was a change of clothes and her cosmetics. No cell phone, no ID, no way to be tracked or followed. Jesse had left hours before. She took a moment to look at the white roses growing outside his front door, then drove away without looking back.

It had been awhile since she'd driven the main Miami thoroughfares. There was construction, of course, but in different places than she last remembered. Some exits were temporarily closed, others used as detours. She missed the airport exit, had to double back using surface streets. She still managed to reach the hanger a few minutes early.

Armand was already there, waiting for her. He was leaning against the side of his jet, arms crossed over his chest, while his security team discreetly stood just out of earshot. Armand waved the men off as Fiona pulled to a stop outside the hanger. He smiled and went to meet her, opened the car door for her.

"Here, let me get your bag," he offered. "It's good to see you again."

He was too close, way to close, and she had to set her jaw and concentrate not to push him away and squeeze past him.

"Listen, Armand, if this deal is going to work, I want you to stay at least three feet away from me at all times," she said, looking up at him.

He looked as if he couldn't tell if she was kidding or not.

"I'm serious," she added.

"Alright," he said, smiling wryly. "What rumors have you been hearing about me? Surely you didn't take them seriously." But he backed up, like she was threatening him with a weapon. Suddenly he looked past her, out onto the parkway. "Did you invite a guest?"

Fiona looked behind her. A silver Porsche was pulling towards the hanger. "I'll take care of it," she said quickly.

She walked out to meet Jesse before he could get out of his car. "You need to leave, right now."

He slipped off his sunglasses. "What the hell are you doing? Who's that guy and his fleet of GI Joes?"

"Don't worry about it," she said. She took a breath and added, "I'm going away for a little while. With him."

Jesse shook his head. "You're what? Does Mike know about this?"

She glanced back at Armand, whose dark scowl made it seem he was dangerously close to having his security team sort out the details. "He knows what he needs to know. Jesse, thanks for letting me stay with you, but it's time for me to go."

"Just like that?" He caught her arm as she started to turn away. Seeing the look on her face, he quickly let her go. "Sorry. I mean – this doesn't sound seem like you."

"I have to do something, or I'm finished," she told him quickly. "Take care of Michael for me."

Then she turned and went back to Armand, and the plane was already in the air before she remembered she hadn't reactivated her "borrowed" car's GPS.

It was just one more mistake she'd made in Miami.

[]

Jesse didn't recognize the number that scrawled across the Caller ID. He stepped away from the group to hear better. "Hello?"

"Is this Jesse Porter?" a woman's voice asked.

"Speaking. Who's this?"

"My name is Sarah. I'm a case manager over here at Palm Sands General Hospital. I'm calling about Ms. Fiona Glenanne."

He went around a corner, put a hand over his other ear. "Okay, yeah – what's going on?"

"Well, yours is the only number in Ms. Glenanne's file. I thought I should let you know – she's in the process of signing out AMA."

"AMA? What's that mean?"

"Against Medical Advice," the woman answered. "It means, she's leaving the hospital."

Jesse looked up at the ceiling. "No, no – that's not a good idea. She's still really sick –"

"This isn't a prison, Mr. Porter," the woman told him. "She was cleared by our Psych staff. She's no in immanent danger to herself or others. She can leave whenever she wants. And she is. Right now."

Rubbing his forehead, Jesse asked quickly, "Can you just keep her there for a little while? Just until. . . I can pick her up. Only – don't tell her, so it'll be a surprise. She really loves surprises."

"She'll be done with the papers in about twenty minutes," the woman warned. "After that, we can't hold her."

Jesse closed the line and cursed quietly.

"That doesn't sound good."

Sam was standing behind him. "Something up with Fi?"

"Yeah, she's going AWOL," Jesse said. "Got about twenty minutes before she's in the wind. What the hell do we do now? Two weeks isn't enough time –"

Sam raised a hand. "I know, I know. But you can't be all that surprised. What we gotta do now is find a place to stash her. She can stay in one of Elsa's suites –"

"She'll never go for that," Jesse dismissed. "We have to get her somewhere she'll want to stay. Otherwise, first time we turn around, she'll be gone. And we may never find her again."

"I got it, I'm just a little short on ideas," Sam snapped.

"Me – she can stay with me," Jesse offered. "It's great – can keep an eye on her, make sure she's okay –"

"And how will we explain it to Mike?" Sam interrupted. "Things are already tense between them."

Jesse shrugged. "I don't know. Convince him. I'm gonna go grab Fi. You can sell this," he added, quickly walking down the hallway.

"I don't have magical powers," Sam muttered.

[]

She was adding components together when she heard the door open behind her. Recognizing Armand's footsteps, she didn't turn around. "It's not done yet."

He walked over to the workbench, kept the agreed upon three feet of space between them. "Fiona. I brought you a gift." He set a gun down on the workbench and slid it over to her. Over his shoulder he said, "Bring them in."

She was immediately on guard the moment she heard more footsteps enter the room. She wanted to whirl around, demand for them to stop, promise to kill them all with one small blasting cap. But she didn't : she kept stirring, measuring in components, calmly ignoring everything.

"Take a look," Armand encouraged.

Fiona glanced over her shoulder, did a double-take and turned full around.

Milles Vanderwaal and one of his lieutenants were on their knees, gaged, hands tied behind them. They both had so many cuts and bruises, it was obvious they hadn't made their capture easy. Armand's guards stood over them with high powered riffles, far more weaponry than was needed. More guards than were necessary, too – three per captive.

She looked at them for a moment. Neither seemed to recognize her, not even Vanderwaal, the one who had caused her so much pain. That was ironic, because she would know him anywhere, anytime.

She'd had revenge fantasies for a long time. Each one was different, violent, but all ended with Vanderwaal screaming for mercy. She didn't know the name of the man beside him, but she recognized him, too. He'd been there. She remembered. She remembered everything, like it was a movie she'd watched a hundred times.

She remembered – but she didn't feel.

Fiona shrugged, turned back to the workbench. She slid the gun back towards Armand. "I'm busy – can you take care of this for me?" Casually, as if she was asking him to bring her a snack.

"Of course," Armand said. He sounded like she was the one doing something kind for him. "At once."

"Not in here," she added, resuming her stirring. "Too much mess."

The captives made some garbled gibberish sounds as they were dragged from the room.

Fiona didn't bother to turn around.

[]

The guest room was small, but comfortable. It adjoined a small bathroom, and a French door opened to a little deck overlooking the swimming pool. He'd never been one for interior design, so he'd hired a professional. Cool blues and greens shaded the walls, and the furniture was white wicker, from the rocking chair to the chest of drawers.

"It's charming," Fiona said, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Doesn't really seem your style."

"Good guess," Jesse laughed. "I know when I'm out of my league. Told the design lady to go wild. Turned out okay. Kinda – kinda reminds me of my mom."

Fi smiled a little at him. "Thanks for letting me crash here. It won't be for long –"

"Hey, none of that," he interrupted. "Remember when I got burned? You set me up in you neighbor's condo, then at Maddie's. Would've made my life a lot harder without that place to land. It's just payback time."

She nodded. "Fair enough." She drew up her legs, curled into the center of the bed. "I'm just going to rest here for awhile. I'm a little tired."

"Yeah, sure, of course." He pulled a blanket off the rocking chair, draped it over her. "I'll be around – you know – if you need anything."

She didn't answer, just smiled a little and closed her eyes.

She looked very small and very fragile beneath that blue blanket. He turned and quietly shut the door behind him.

Michael was standing in the hallway, waiting, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Okay, wait, before you get pissed, let's talk about this," Jesse said quickly. "She's sleeping, so let's take this downstairs."

Michael silently followed him to the garage. "I'm waiting," he said the moment the door was closed.

"Mike, I didn't know what else to do," Jesse said. "She was about to walk out of the hospital. Did you know that? Do you know where she was going? 'Cause I didn't, and she didn't tell me. This way, we know where she is."

Michael rubbed his forehead. "I found a house over by the river. We'll stay there. It's all set up."

"Does she know about that plan? 'Cause, Mike, last time I checked – Fi wasn't really ready to deal with you yet."

"Deal with me?" Michael echoed, his voice dangerously calm.

"You know what I mean," Jesse said, putting up his hands. "Mike, please."

Michael lowered his gaze, paced a few steps away. "Let me stay here. With her."

Jesse ducked his head. "I don't know –"

"I'll stay out of her way," Michael said. "Just don't – I want to be close by. I can't – I won't leave her again. Jesse. . ."

"Okay, yeah, sure," Jesse agreed. "But I'm running tight on space here. It's the living room or the garage. Sorry."

"Garage sounds great," Michael said. "Thanks."

[]

Stern had been busy climbing the CIA food chain during the time Michael had been gone. He'd had some success in that area – now he was right under the Deputy Director. And he was proud of it.

"Goddammit, of course I knew you two weren't dead. The entire intelligence community knew. The consensus was, better to let you go than keep you around and have to deal with you. And now, here you are, asking for help, making the entire agency look like idiots for going along with your early retirement plan." Stern ran a hand over his head. "You know, I had an agent ask me if we should take down your star off the honor wall since you aren't actually dead. How the hell do I answer that?"

"Stern, I wouldn't be here if I had other options," Michael said for the third time. "If you think I missed you or the Agency, you need to think again. But some of the Agency's problem children got a hall pass and came after me."

Stern leaned back in the chair behind his very large desk. "Vaughn was able to make a legal case for his release. With Card dead and you gone, he was able to rewrite history. Chechik and Vanderwaal weren't even in the US."

"Pytyr Chechik and Milles Vanderwaal are the guys working with Vaughn?" Michael asked. His voice was calm, covering his feelings. "A war criminal and a mercenary. This just keeps getting better and better."

There was a knock on Stern's door, and a young man poked his head in to say, "We're getting an encrypted message – for Mr. Westen."

Stern glared at Michael. "So help me God, this is going to get cleaned up and swept under the rug as fast as possible. You are going back to being dead by the end of the week, or I'm going to have you thrown in a hole so deep, you'll be dead for real this time."

[]

Pierce sat down on the bench beside him. "I'm sorry," she said quietly.

He settled his sunglasses more firmly on his face. "Yeah. So am I."

It really was a beautiful day. The cloudless sky met the ocean far, far against the horizon. The wind was warm, the sound of the waves gentle as they lapped on the shore. There were tourists out sunbathing, children playing in the sand.

"Have any plans?" Pierce asked.

Michael laughed a little. "You know, Fi tried to tell me. She did. And I thought I understood. But I didn't, then. I do now. I do."

Hesitantly Pierce reached out to touch his shoulder. "When my fiancée died, I didn't know what to do. I was – lost."

He turned his head to look at her. "Does it get better?"

She dipped her head. "Sometimes it is. Sometimes. . ." She shook her head.

"That's not enough," Michael said, looking up at the clear, clear sky.

[]

And then one day he saw her sitting beside the pool, dangling her feet in the water. She had her pants rolled up to the knees, a hooded sweatshirt that covered her from wrist to throat. The short strands of her dark hair danced around her neck.

He sat down not far from her, took off his shoes and socks, rolled up his pants and stuck his feet in the water, mirroring her behaviors. He waited for her to speak first.

"I'm feeling better," Fi said finally. She gestured at the cast on her right hand. "This comes off tomorrow."

"That's great," Michael replied. He noticed how she wasn't looking at him. He waited to see if she might say more. This was the first time they'd spoken since the hospital.

"It's – hard for me to talk to you," she said finally.

"Why's that?" he asked.

She looked down at her feet in the water. "Because I failed. I couldn't save Charlie. Couldn't save myself. And you didn't come for us. He was killed and I was dumped off in an empty lot. I wish – I wish they'd just put a bullet in me, gotten it over with."

He swallowed. "I'm glad they didn't."

She smiled at the sky. "The important part of me got lost somewhere along the way. I wake up, eat, do whatever. Sometimes I just sit in the shower for hours. Then I go to bed, and I hope desperately that I never wake up again. But I do. There's no end in sight."

Briefly he closed his eyes. "You need help, Fi. If not from me, then someone. Anyone. It's okay to ask for help."

She just shook her head.

[]

"We just can't locate them, Westen," Stern said sharply. "Vaughn wasn't lying – they're split, and their signals are bouncing all over the globe. We can't even tell if the images are on a time-delay or not. Both Fiona and Charlie could already be dead." He paused. "I'm sorry."

"It's been almost 48 hours and we have nothing?" Michael demanded. He ran a hand over his face. "The Agency has more resources than any other organization on the planet, and we have nothing?'

"Hey, Mike," Jesse called sharply. "Your friend's back for a chat."

Michael quickly followed Jesse's voice back to the room where the techs had set up a central command. Vaughn was up on the screen once again, smiling again.

"Decision time, Michael," Vaughn said by way of greeting. "I trust by now you've figured out all the techs in the world can't find any of us. It's time to move on, for both of us. So make a choice, or I'll decide for you. And you very well may not like my choice. So what's it going to be?"

[]

It was late, late into the night when Michael went back to the hotel. He slipped in looking like a drunk tourist, staggering towards the elevator and fumbling for the key card. The desk clerk didn't give him a second look.

Up on the ninth floor, he went to the room where she'd been before. He used a master key he'd swiped earlier in the day, let himself in without a sound.

At first he thought she'd run. It wouldn't have surprised him. But she was in the bathroom, sitting on the white tiles, squished into the space between shower and sink. She looked up at him with wary eyes, and said nothing. He stretched out a hand to help her up. She regarded it blankly for a moment, then took it and stood up. In the few moments he held her hand, it was hard to miss how small it seemed, how all the fine bones were crowded together and just one small smash away from cracking.

Almost five months since he'd seen her, and she seemed – better. Not necessarily physically, because there were still too many hollows where there should have been curves. It was her affect: she was able to meet his eyes, stand close without squeezing away as fast as possible to gain more space.

"I almost didn't wait," she told him.

"Not surprising," he replied. "Didn't actually think you'd be here, either." He stepped back, giving her space to walk away.

She moved past him, went to the kitchen. To his surprise, she pulled a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and two glasses from a cabinet.

"How long have you been here?" he asked.

"Day or so," she replied, pushing a half filled glass towards him. "Had a job."

He didn't ask because he really didn't want to know. "Did you know your location was leaked?"

"Not until I saw that army coming to surround the building." She shrugged. "Had to happen sometime."

"And you didn't think to run?" he challenged. What was he doing? He was supposed to be happy she'd been caught. She was a wanted criminal in over half a dozen countries, including this one. This was a great day for the good guys.

It didn't feel like a great day.

"No tactical support," she replied. She took her glass of wine and went to sit at the table. "No way to get out clean. Best chance was to stay put, slip out with the housekeeping staff in a few days."

"So here we are." He sat down across from her. It was almost normal, like things had used to be.

She nodded. "Let's get to the point. Are you going to turn me in, or let me go?"

He rubbed his forehead. "What do you want?"

"To walk out of here free, of course."

"You say that, but you act like you want to get caught," he said, shaking his head.

"Stop trying to pretend that you know what I want," she returned. She didn't sound angry, but rather very calm. "I just told you, I do not want to be hauled in by the superhero team."

"So you can go back to working for Armand? They're looking for him, too, you know. And why isn't he here trying to help you out? This is some great arrangement you two have going."

She smiled at him, but it wasn't any smile he'd ever seen from her before. "Armand would gut me like a fish if it meant making a deal. I'm on my own."

He reached across the table to trace the back of her hand with a light touch. "You're alone because you want to be."

She didn't flinch, but the smile disappeared. "Stop," she said calmly. "If you don't, I'll break every one of your fingers. It doesn't feel pleasant. Believe me, I know."

That was new: she was able to casually reference the disaster that had sent her down this path.

"I think we're at an impass," he replied. He moved his chair closer, let his thumb trace the scar running over her wrist.

"I warned you," she said, not backing down. "What are you trying to do, push me into saying something? You could have turned me in earlier. There's not point in wearing a wire now. I don't know what you want. But here's a tip." She caught his wrist with her other hand. "I was very sick for a very long time. But I'm much better now. So let me go or turn me in, but don't play games. I have far less patience than I used to, if you can believe it." She flung his wrist away like it was something sticky.

"You're different," he agreed. "Not necessarily better."

She slowly blinked. "Decision time. Me or the boyscouts. Who's it going to be?"

"I think you know the answer to that," he said, his voice as calm as hers.

She nodded, seeming very tired. "I do."

"You," he said simply. "I always choose you. When you're IRA, gunrunning, or international criminal – I always choose you."

She looked away, swallowed. "Bad choice." She stood up and moved closer to him, caught his face in her hands, and kissed him very gently on the forehead. "We both seem to make the same bad choices over and over." She smiled a little at him, shook her head. "Again and again."

He took her hand and said quietly, "Who says they were bad choices?"

By some instant agreement, things changed. He reached up for her, and she slid into his lap. This wasn't like last time, hesitant and a little timid – this was more focused, like they each had something to prove. She reached behind him and pulled the handgun from his waistband, blindly tossed it onto the table behind her. He had her shirt unbuttoned in record time, used his tongue to trace any scar in reach. She reached between them and wrestled with the buttons on his pants.

"A belt? Really?" she complained. "You didn't plan ahead?"

"I didn't think you'd even still be here," he said in his defense. He stood up, bringing her with him, coaxing her to stay close as he walked backwards towards the bathroom.

"Where the hell are you going?" she demanded. "Can't you stay still for just one damn minute?" She finally managed to slide off the belt, unbutton and unzip his jeans.

He glanced over his shoulder, looked back at her. "I thought – last time – "

She laughed a little. "It's fine," she said, pushing him backwards onto the bed. "Stop thinking so much."

And it did seem fine this time. It didn't bother her what he did or what he touched, scars included. Things were going well, until he made the mistake of rolling her onto her back.

"Goddamn it, don't," she snarled, pushing him off her.

"Wait," he said, catching her arm. "You said –"

"Well, I guess I was wrong, dammit." She put a hand over her eyes and swore again.

"Just wait a minute," he said, sitting up beside her. "Calm down. It's not like there are rules –"

"Stop. I'm over it." She wasn't talking to him. "I'm over it." In a move more akin to wrestling than romance, she leveraged him into a roll where she ended up beneath him. "Just keep going."

"Why are you being like this?" he asked, shifting off her. "Is this some kind of a test you're just trying to get through?"

"Who the hell cares?" she shot back. She pushed him the rest of the way over, adding, "Like nothing ever happened." She kissed him to keep him from talking anymore.

It wasn't difficult to give up and do as she asked. She was even a little right – for awhile, it was like nothing had ever happened.

Until that time was over. Then reality was back in the room with them, practically standing in the far corner.

He propped up on an elbow and looked down at her. Her hair was shoulder-length now, reddish-blond, and a little curly. He stroked it away from her face, down her neck. "I can get you out of here," he told her quietly.

"And go where?"

"With me," he offered. "Anywhere you want to go."

She sighed. "We already played that game. Didn't end so well."

"So where does that leave us?" He laid down beside her, watching her face. "Tell me what you want to do."

She closed her eyes. "I want to stay right here and never get up again."

He stroked her cheek."Sounds a little fatalistic."

She opened her eyes and regarded him steadily. "It's what I've wanted for a long time. Just to lay down and never get back up."

"Are you serious or kidding?" he asked. "Because I can't tell."

Softly she answered, "Serious."

Quietly he said, "You said you were over it. But I've heard you say this before. Don't you have any dreams anymore?"

She shook her head a little.

"You don't want anything? Go somewhere, do something? Nothing?"

"It's better not to," she tried to comfort him. "Then you're never disappointed."

"Or happy," he countered gently. "Fi, I've lived like that. It's not something I recommend."

"Doesn't matter. It's how I am. Don't see it ever changing."

He cupped her chin. "It'll get you killed."

She took his hand and kissed it. "We've been over this, Michael. There are some things you can't change."

He didn't know what to say. After a while he leaned over, kissed her cheek and shoulder. "Maybe – maybe if – you talked about it – you might be able to feel differently?"

"No," she said easily. "I don't have anything to say."

"Well, maybe there's something I need to hear," he offered.

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Anything."

She rolled away from him, turned her back so she wouldn't have to look at him. "Like what? How I wasn't strong enough, or fast enough, or smart enough to get away from Chechik and Vanderwaal? How Charlie screamed and screamed, even after I did everything they wanted? That what you're looking for?"

He looked up at the ceiling. "Fi – I –" He stopped, reached out to rub her back.

"Stop it," she snapped. "No sympathy. I don't want it, and I don't need it."

"Who says?" he challenged.

She sat up and looked at him. "Me. I live with my choices every day, from the minute I get up to the time I go to sleep. I know exactly what I did and didn't do. I don't need anyone else to judge me. I can do that all by myself."

He sat up next to her. "And you don't think I know what that's like? Do you remember the whole fiasco with Kendrick?"

She laughed bitterly. "I wasn't there with you, Michael, remember? While you were off having your fling with Sonja, I was holding other things together. But, tell me – were you assaulted so many times you still can't remember how many people were involved? Did you break your own fingers so you couldn't be forced to kill a child? Did someone wrap your hand around a gun and force you to kill a four year old little boy?"

He lightly caught her shoulders. "Fi –"

"Oh, just shut up," she snarled, pushing off his hands. "I don't know what you want from me. You want me to talk, then you don't want to listen to what I have to say. I ask you to stay away from me, and here you are. Michael, communication has never been our strong point, but I think we've hit a new low."

He ran a hand over his face. "I'm trying here, Fi. I'm not saying I've been through what you have, but I have been where you are. And Fi – Fi, look at me – if you don't let someone help you, you will end up killing yourself."

She looked at him silently. After a moment she shrugged and turned away. "It's like we're not even speaking the same language anymore." She added quietly, "I'm just so tired. Don't you ever feel that way? I keep going, thinking things will let up – but they never do." She laid back down, drew up a sheet and curled onto her side. "They never do."

"We can fix this," Michael said. "Get you out of the country, give you time to rest. Just trust me."

She didn't answer, but she did move her hand to pat the space behind her. He got the message, laid down beside her and put and arm over her waist.

Into the quiet she asked, "We were happy for those few months, weren't we? You, me, and Charlie? Sometimes I wonder if I just imagined it. It seems like – forever ago. Our life in Miami – just a dream. And those days in Ireland, when we first met. . .where'd those people go?"

He pulled her closer to him. "They're you and me, Fi. We were happy, you didn't imagine that. And we can be happy again. Just say the word, and we can fix this. Between the two of us, there's never been anything we couldn't handle."

She rubbed his hand. "Maybe not this time."

"This time, too," he insisted.

She didn't say anything else for a long while. He thought she'd fallen asleep. But then she turned towards him, and he could see the dim moonlight mirrored in her eyes.

"Ask me," she said quietly. "Ask me anything you want, and I'll tell you."

Given the offer, he suddenly had a hundred questions, only a few of which he was sure he wanted answered.

"Are you angry at me for what happened?" he asked. "Do you blame me?"

She was quiet for a moment. "I did blame you, at first, because you didn't save Charlie. The minute you said my name, he was dead. You gave the order, and I carried it out. So I blamed myself as much as I blamed you. Angry? You have to be able to feel things in order to be angry. So, no, I wasn't angry." She paused, then added, "My turn."

"Alright. Ask."

"Do you remember that time we were on the balcony at the loft, and Sam walked in on us? And you told him you had a migraine and wanted a little quiet – and he actually bought it?"

Michael laughed. "I was highly motivated. As I recall, you said I had ten seconds to get rid of him, or the deal was off."

"And it worked," she laughed. She traced his jaw with a finger."Your turn."

"Why did you leave, after what happened? I wanted to be there for you, but you'd hardly look at me."

Briefly she closed her eyes. "I was ashamed of myself. I always thought I was so strong, so smart, I could handle anything. And then I couldn't stop them, couldn't stop them from hurting Charlie – and I was ashamed. The scars – everytime I saw them, they screamed of what I couldn't do. I couldn't talk to you because I thought you felt the same. And I couldn't take you being ashamed of me, too."

He ran a hand over her shoulder. "I was never, never ashamed of you, not for one minute."

"Are you just saying that because you think it's what I want to hear?'

"It's the truth."

She swallowed. "Do you remember the time, after you were back with the Agency – you had to make a flight back to D.C., but you'd been back for less than twenty-four hours. I threw a fit about it. You were almost out the door when you dropped your bag, turned around, and tackled me onto the bed. You said you'd just catch a later flight."

"I also remember I tore the dress you were wearing, and for once, you didn't yell about it," he said, smiling. "I didn't like that dress, anyway."

She laughed a little. "You're up."

He thought about it for a minute. "Do you still love me?"

She leaned forward and kissed him very gently. "You know that place on your back, on your shoulderblade, where you were burned one time? You told me it doesn't have any sensation, can't feel anything. That's what it's like for me, on the inside. I know for sure I used to love you, and I should still love you, and that it's still a part of me – I just can't feel it anymore."

That hurt, but he'd asked. "Your turn."

"Do you think you could be happy without me?"

"No," he answered without hesitation. "I've tried that more times than I should have. I was able to exist, get by, but happy? No."

"What if you really tried?"

"I don't want to really try," he returned. "I want you to stay with me. And I want you to want to stay with me."

She closed her eyes. After a moment she laid her head against his chest and started to cry, not just a little, but great wracking sobs that shook her entire frame.

He held her, mumbling nonsense words of comfort. She wept until she fell asleep, head still on his chest.

Michael was almost relieved. Now things could be different, better. In the morning, it would be a chance to truly start over. Things would be better, now.

[]

When Michael woke up, Fiona was gone, of course. And she'd taken his gun, of course. The surprise was that she'd left a note: _Down at the beach_.

It was still very, very early – the sun had yet to fully cross the horizon, and the world was still a hazy grey. But he knew she was smarter than to go out while a multi-governmental manhunt was practically waiting at her door. He dressed as fast as possible, was stepping into the elevator while still pulling on his shirt.

He went through the lobby and was led straight to the white sand. She could be anywhere, up the beach or down. Luckily there weren't many people around: a few joggers, a man walking his dogs, a tourist picking up seashells. He shielded his eyes, thought about calling for her and quickly dismissed the idea. Finally he thought he saw her sitting in the sand a few yards down the beach. He ran, hoping he could get her stashed away before some curious bystander recognized her and made a phone call.

It was her: she was wearing a pale blue and white sundress, the kind of thing she'd worn all the time in Miami, and not at all since the disaster of almost a year before. She was barefoot, knees drawn up and chin resting on them as she looked at the waves. She looked up at him and smiled when he stopped beside her. "Morning."

"What the hell are you doing out here?" he demanded. "Come on, you have to get back inside."

She turned her eyes back to the ocean. "We need to talk, Michael."

"Not now, Fi," he disagreed. "The cops could show up at any minute. I know the Agency left a scout behind. Time to go."

"Sit down or go away," she told him. She pulled back her hair back and pinned it up, but the wind still blew wisps around her neck.

He dropped to his haunches beside her. "Well?"

She laid her cheek on her knees and smiled a little at him. "I thought about what you said last night. One of us is crazy. I'm not sure it's you. I think it's me. I've suspected for awhile."

"Fi, we really need to go before someone recognizes you," Michael said.

She sighed and looked back to the waves. "Look," she said, pointing into the surf. "Look at that shell. It's beautiful. Will you get it for me?"

"You'll go, if I get it?"

She smiled at him, the way she'd smiled at him a long, long time ago. "I will."

So he stood up and waded into the water, soaking pants and shoes. "I don't see it. Can you see where it went?"

He heard the gunshot behind him and knew what had happened before he turned around. He hesitated, looked one more time for the shell, but it was gone. Turning, he went back towards the dry sand.

She was lying on the beach, the gun still in her hand, a spreading stain on her dress. She had been a sniper for a long time, knew how to fire one shot and instantly end a life.

He stood over her and said softly, "We could have keep looking. I would've keep looking for you."

[]

"Hey, have you seen Charlie's other shoe – the brown one?"

Fiona took a quick look around the kitchen. "No, but I found your keys."

"No surprise there," Michael answered. He set Charlie down on a chair, went into the livingroom. "Found it."

"Good, because we're going to be late." Fiona picked up her purse and the gift for the birthday party. As Michael finished lacing Charlie's shoe, she added, "You can't get out of this thing today so you can come with us?"

Michael shook his head. "No, but it won't take long. I'll meet you two there as soon as I can." He picked up Charlie, set the boy on his feet. "There we go. All set. Be good for Fi," he added, smiling at him.

"He minds me barely better than you do," Fiona returned. "See you soon," she said, leaning over Charlie to kiss Michael's cheek.

"See you soon," he agreed. He picked up his keys, ruffled Charlie's hair, smiled at Fi, and walked out the door.

[end]


End file.
